<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>tired (&amp; not dead) by elusive_eventuality</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948271">tired (&amp; not dead)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elusive_eventuality/pseuds/elusive_eventuality'>elusive_eventuality</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Torchwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e07 Greeks Bearing Gifts, Guilt, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e04 Cyberwoman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:27:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,852</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elusive_eventuality/pseuds/elusive_eventuality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The blood doesn’t come out. It sticks, dries to the concrete like dye — seeps into all the cracks and settles there. Ianto’s bought enough bleach to fill a bathtub. He’s spent enough time down in the basement scrubbing for his hands to peel, raw and dry and cracked. But it keeps him busy, at least. Even if the concrete bruises his knees and the bleach burns his lungs.</i>
</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The pain of losing Lisa eases. The guilt does not. (a post-cyberwoman coda.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tired (&amp; not dead)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first fanfic for Torchwood, so I'm still finding my footing a little bit. </p>
<p>I've messed around a little bit with the timelines because fuck it, poetic license and all that, but for clarity's sake Greeks Bearing Gifts has been brought forward a few episodes. It's a minor change, a 'blink and you'll miss it' type deal, but I wanted to include it, and the references it makes regarding Ianto's mental state.</p>
<p>As always, I hope you enjoy :)</p>
<p>[title from Samia's song <i>'Milk'</i>]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The blood doesn’t come out. It sticks, dries to the concrete like dye — seeps into all the cracks and settles there. Ianto’s bought enough bleach to fill a bathtub. He’s spent enough time down in the basement scrubbing for his hands to peel, raw and dry and cracked.</p>
<p class="p1">It had taken all five of them the better part of the evening to mop up the worst of it. Ianto had insisted on carrying out Lisa’s body himself, throat raw and hoarse from the sobbing. From the screaming. Then he’d led them to Tanizaki — all that was left of him, mutilated and bloodied, scrap metal forced so deep under his skin that it bulged with it. Gwen had walked out. Tosh wasn’t far behind.</p>
<p class="p1">When Ianto turned he’d expected to see Jack’s Webley at his head again. Owen’s sneer was somehow worse, contempt and disgust and so much anger that Ianto’s own fists curled in misplaced empathy. And Jack. Jack, looking at him with such a sense of betrayal Ianto ached with it, staring him down with his split lip and raised brow and eyes so dark it was a wonder he could see anything at all.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto barely had the strength to lift Tanizaki but neither offered to help him. Just watched, mute and scornful, as he dragged the body away, retching and sobbing.</p>
<p class="p1">And then it had been four weeks of house arrest — suspension, as Jack called it, as if that made it any easier to swallow — and a small part of Ianto, a tiny, nagging part, almost wishes they’d retconned him. That they’d taken his memories of Lisa dying, of the blood, of the death, of <em>Jack</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">Especially of Jack.</p>
<p class="p1">But this keeps him busy, at least. Even if the concrete bruises his knees and the bleach burns his lungs.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s nothing he doesn’t deserve.</p>
<p class="p1">—</p>
<p class="p1">He sleeps in fits and starts. On the nights when he can he stays at the hub. Takes himself back down the basement, back down to where the bodies had been. Where he had hauled Tanizaki down the winding corridors, concrete and cold unforgiving steel.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s become a ritual, in a way. He thinks that maybe if he sits with his demons enough they’ll leave him alone. Or at least he’ll begin to understand them — to understand what they want from him. A pound of flesh. His beating heart. A steel fist around his neck.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto knows they watch him — or Jack does, at the very least. The cameras follow where he goes, twist with mechanical whirs to track his movements.</p>
<p class="p1">Let them. He has nothing left to hide. Not from them. Not from anyone.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s built something of a nest in the backroom. A couple of faded, worn blankets and half a dozen pillows. It doesn’t make it comfortable by any means, but that wasn’t really the purpose. If he could he’d sleep without any of it.</p>
<p class="p1">On the bad nights, he does. Kicks the blankets and pillows away, switches off his torch and sits, shaking and numb in the silent dark. Keeping vigil, always. Finding patterns in the blackness, a swirling abyss of memories and screams and so much blood he can never see it all.</p>
<p class="p1">None of them ask about the bags under his eyes. He isn’t sure they even notice.</p>
<p class="p1">—</p>
<p class="p1">It’s two weeks before Tosh confronts him. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him close as he explains in choked half-truths. It’s the most anybody has touched him in <em>weeks</em>. It’s entirely overwhelming in a way he can’t quite place. There’s little else he can do than tuck his face against her neck and fight back tears.</p>
<p class="p1">Not that she minds — she wouldn’t. Out of all of them, it’s always been Tosh that’s treated him the best — that’s always spared him a thought and a smile and a chat. Even after Jack propositioned him all those months ago it was Tosh who showed him kindness, who included him where she could.</p>
<p class="p1">She does it again now, holds him against her and murmurs things only half in English.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto knows the others are all watching. He can hear Owen’s scoff across the room, feel Gwen’s quiet confusion, laced, always, with disapproval.</p>
<p class="p1">And Jack.</p>
<p class="p1">He had long since memorised exactly how Jack’s gaze felt — hot and heavy. It used to make him warm. Now it feels like blood on his hands.</p>
<p class="p1">They all talk about him. When they think he can’t hear. Or thinks he doesn’t know. Gwen starts it, usually. Lets herself into Jack’s office with a small, twisted expression — guilt and worry and anger, still — and Ianto doesn’t watch then. He can’t. Can’t stand to look at how easily Jack allows her company like he used to allow his.</p>
<p class="p1">He hasn’t been to Jack’s office since— Since Lisa. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be welcome again.</p>
<p class="p1">So he clutches onto Tosh’s arm instead, presses his face firmly against her shirt until he’s sure that nobody can see him. He knows when she feels his tears. Her hand comes up to cradle his head, small fingers running gently through his hair.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not the comfort he needs. Her hands are too delicate, too gentle, and she smells all wrong. Something sweet and floral, nothing like leather and wool and—</p>
<p class="p1">He swallows and lets her continue.</p>
<p class="p1">—</p>
<p class="p1">Jack catches him at some point in the third week. The whole basement smells of nothing but bleach — acrid and invasive. Ianto’s stopped noticing it. Just scrubs, idly, at the red mark on the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">“Go home, Ianto.”</p>
<p class="p1">His name in Jack’s mouth twists in his stomach, coils around his chest. <em>Ianto.</em> Not Jones. Ianto.</p>
<p class="p1">Hope is a dangerous thing. He stamps it out before it can get away from him.</p>
<p class="p1">“After I’ve finished here, sir.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Now, Ianto. That’s an order.”</p>
<p class="p1">He stops mid-scrub. The brush falls from his hand.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Orders.</em> Isn’t that exactly what led to this? To Ianto scrubbing a stain from the floor that he was beginning to think was part of the concrete itself. To Lisa — oh God <em>Lisa</em> — sprawled across the ground, half-torn open and exposed. To the bullets in the delivery girl and the blood. All that blood. Rivers of it. Sticky and warm and clinging. It had taken him hours of washing before he’d admitted defeat and burned his clothes. Burned the last things Lisa had touched. The last part he had of her and—</p>
<p class="p1">Jack’s hand rests on his back, warm and heavy.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto flinches instinctively, head jerking to the side in an attempt to <em>move</em>, to put distance between himself and the gun and—</p>
<p class="p1">“Easy,” Jack soothes, his palm rubbing slow, soothing circles through Ianto’s blazer.</p>
<p class="p1">Kindness is foreign, now. <em>Jack’s</em> kindness is foreign. It has been weeks of nothing but cold stares and the occasional barked use of his surname. Weeks of nodding and ‘yes sirs’ on his part, of keeping his hands to himself and his head down and wondering when the hell the scratching in his chest would stop.</p>
<p class="p1">It all washes over him in a rush. Frustration and loneliness and a guilt so strong he burns with it. Sends him careening back, falling into Jack’s bulk, head hung to his chest as his eyes screw shut.</p>
<p class="p1">And then there are hands; gentle, warm hands at Ianto’s hair, his face, his shoulders, slipping down to cradle his own palms between them, running across the raw skin from the bleach, dry and peeling. They’re familiar, achingly familiar, and Ianto remembers all the other times Jack had touched him — all the other times he’s pressed kisses to his skin, cradled his jaw, trailed fingers down his spine.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto bites his lip, stifles a sob rising in his throat. “I didn’t mean it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Jack stills for a beat before pulling him closer, rests his cheek against Ianto’s head and hushes him gently.</p>
<p class="p1">“What I said about—about watching you die. I didn’t mean it.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I know,” Jack says, low and so <em>sure</em> that a sob breaks free, bounces from the walls.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for it to— I didn’t—“</p>
<p class="p1">Jack’s hands don’t stop moving, they linger at his skin and trace weaving patterns across his arms, his scalp, wherever they can reach.</p>
<p class="p1">Guilt bubbles over, spreads across Ianto’s chest, falls into his stomach like a stone to the bottom of a well. They’d nearly died because of him. Three people <em>had</em> died. Four, if Jack was counted. <em>Twice.</em> Jack had died for them — died for <em>his</em> mistakes twice over. It should have been him left to pay that price. Left on the hard concrete, left in the damp cold of the water.</p>
<p class="p1">“You should’ve let me die,” Ianto whispers eventually. And Jack is close, <em>so</em> close, close enough that he can turn, tuck his face against his chest. The rhythm of his heart is muted through his clothes; a slow, steady thud. Ianto clings to it.</p>
<p class="p1">“Never.” The word rumbles from Jack’s chest, loud and muffled all at once. “I will never let you die, Ianto Jones.”</p>
<p class="p1">Before he can think better of it Ianto turns, fully. Loops his arms around Jack’s torso and clings to him like a child. He’s still sniffling, face pressed against Jack’s shoulder, nose resting on the warm skin of his neck as Jack hushes him and presses small, chaste kisses to his head.</p>
<p class="p1">How many times has he been here? In this exact position, almost. Tucked up against Jack’s side in the afterglow, buying himself as many minutes as he could of his touch. Of the press of lips to his brow, his temple, his mouth when Jack was feeling particularly accommodating.</p>
<p class="p1">Gentle, always. Even when he was rough he was <em>gentle</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s more than Ianto deserves.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s more than he can handle.</p>
<p class="p1">He squirms from Jack’s grip, pulls his hands — shaking, still — back to his sides.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack catches him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, no you don’t. None of that. Come on, come here.” And just as quickly as he’d left Jack’s cradling him again, swaddling him almost in layers of warmth, his coat half wrapped around Ianto’s shoulders.</p>
<p class="p1">Behind his eyelids, the darkness swims, coalesces into shapes, into movement. Lisa’s jerky steps, her hand around Gwen’s neck, blood spilling from her body, from Tanizaki’s, from the delivery girl’s.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack, convulsing under her touch.</p>
<p class="p1">(Ianto wishes, not for the first time, that Owen had never told him that particular detail. He hadn’t shaken the taste of bile for the rest of the day.)</p>
<p class="p1">He means to apologise again. He means to spill his guts, explain in the best way he can. Lay it all out on the ground in front of him, show Jack the size of his guilt. The shape of his shame.</p>
<p class="p1">It gets lost somewhere. Gets tangled in his throat, snags on his tongue, until all that comes out is a choked, half-sobbed, “<em>Jack.</em>”</p>
<p class="p1">And then Jack’s pulling away, slightly. Cradling Ianto’s face in large, warm palms and looking down at him with such gentleness that Ianto’s stomach squirms. He’s slow, agonisingly slow, as he leans down. Ianto knows he’s giving him time to pull away, to jerk out of reach. His terms, <em>always</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto closes the distance in a rush, clutches at the back of Jack’s neck and pulls him closer. Closer, closer, closer. He’s too desperate for it to be good, for it to be anything but clacking teeth and half-formed kisses. Because it’s <em>Jack.</em> It’s Jack and Jack is here and he’s finally kissing him again and holding him and it all feels like forgiveness. Bright and blinding and hot and he can’t get enough. Needs Jack closer still, needs more, always, and—</p>
<p class="p1">“Easy, Ianto,” Jack breathes between kisses, putting the barest hint of distance between them. Not enough for Ianto to think Jack’s pushing him away, but enough for their lips to stop touching. “Now I don’t know about you, but this basement hardly screams ‘romantic’ to me. Why don’t we get you upstairs?”</p>
<p class="p1">Despite himself, Ianto smiles, a small, cynical quirk of his lips. It feels foreign and tight. Wrong. But Jack’s thumb catches the movement, his eyes softening as he traces the curve of Ianto’s lips.</p>
<p class="p1">“We’re doing romantic now?”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’re doing whatever you need, Ianto.”</p>
<p class="p1">“And if I need you to shag me right here on the floor?” <em>Right over the blood and the bleach and the guilt. Oh God, the guilt—</em></p>
<p class="p1">“Then I’d say that’s what you want, not what you need. There’s a difference.”</p>
<p class="p1">“They say you died because of me,” Ianto snaps, sudden and fierce as his hands curl into fists at Jack’s shirt. “How can you—how can you even look at me?”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not an empty question. Ianto means it. Means it in a way he hopes his words convey. Over the slow, gradually passing weeks he’s learned to avoid the mirrors in his own flat and the hub is devoid of most reflective surfaces. He avoids the metal. Any metal, really.</p>
<p class="p1">Anything silver, anything cold.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack’s hand slips to cradle Ianto’s neck, thumb rubbing the line of his jaw. Rough, Ianto realises, with stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave.</p>
<p class="p1">“You want to talk about this?” Jack asks. “Then we’ll do it upstairs.”</p>
<p class="p1">There’s no point arguing. Not with Jack and especially not when he’s made his mind up. Even after all that’s happened Ianto can read him — notes the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw.</p>
<p class="p1">He looks <em>tired</em>. Tired and weary and worn down.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not a look Ianto likes on him. It doesn’t suit his face — makes it pinched and strained, makes him look older, years older, <em>decades</em> older. There’s a depth to his eyes Ianto’s noticed before — a quality that he’s never quite been able to place. He thinks it might be that of age, now. That of some undeniable passing of time, a look so guarded that Ianto wonders just what it is he’s running from.</p>
<p class="p1">He nods and forces himself to his feet.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack joins him a moment later, an arm around Ianto’s waist and his other hand clutching Ianto’s still shaking fingers.</p>
<p class="p1">They don’t turn off the basement lights until they’re back in the main hub, until the concrete gives way to metal, until the smell of bleach fades completely. And still, Ianto’s skin prickles, burns under the weight of an invisible gaze.</p>
<p class="p1">Haunted.</p>
<p class="p1">That sounds about right.</p>
<p class="p1">—</p>
<p class="p1">“Here,” Jack says, pressing a mug into Ianto’s hands. Its a faded kind of yellow, chipped paint depicting an image he can’t quite make out. But it’s warm and solid and when he inhales he can smell the tea, strong and sweet.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto meets Jack’s eyes over the rim and hides behind a small, polite smile. “Are you stealing my job, sir?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Who, me?” Jack returns his smile, wry and only half-amused. “Though with the amount of bleach you’ve been buying I think Owen’s worried you’re gonna start spiking his coffee.”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke. Still, it squirms in his gut, scratches and scratches and scratches. Like sharp nails. Like claws. Like rats. He’s seen the looks Owen’s cast him — long and hard and accusing. Distrusting. Anger, always, bubbling away below the surface.</p>
<p class="p1">The tea suddenly makes him nauseous. He sets it down and curls his fingers inwards — presses the blunt edges of his nails as hard as he’s able against his palm.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack’s gaze is a brand. “Owen will come around, Ianto — they all will. Tosh already has. Gwen’s…getting there.”</p>
<p class="p1"><em>”And you?”</em> Ianto wants to ask.</p>
<p class="p1">He doesn’t.</p>
<p class="p1">It had felt like it, though, back in the basement. Felt like Jack was pressing forgiveness into his skin with every touch, with every touch of their lips, no matter how clumsy.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack sits, slowly, in one of the chairs. From this angle he’s all legs, long and lean and strong. He crosses them at the ankle and leans back, enough for his gaze to slip from Ianto, not enough that he leaves his periphery.</p>
<p class="p1">Monitoring him, Ianto realises in a rush. He’s starting to think Jack’s kindness in the basement was a blip. A ploy to get him out of the dark and back into the light, back where Jack could see him, properly — dissect him under the fluorescence.</p>
<p class="p1">Heat builds behind his eyes. He stands before it can spill.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thank you, sir. For the—“ he waves his hand, vaguely, towards the mug — still full and steaming. He doesn’t mention the hug. Or the kiss. Or the way he had sobbed against Jack’s neck like he hadn’t since that night.</p>
<p class="p1">And then it’s just one foot in front of the other. One and one and one. A rhythm. He can do it. He can. If he focuses enough, keeps his gaze on the vault door. Doesn’t look at the fountain, the steel, doesn’t think about the metal and the cold and the blood—</p>
<p class="p1">His steps falter.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack’s presence looms behind him. Waiting.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ianto,” he says, strong and firm. “I forgive you.”</p>
<p class="p1">The words slam into his chest with the force of a freight train. Shatter what’s left of his defences in a single blow until he’s left, shivering exposed and bare before Jack’s gaze.</p>
<p class="p1">“You shouldn’t.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, I do. I forgive you, Ianto Jones. I forgive you.”</p>
<p class="p1">There’s no stopping his tears, then. Nothing holding them at bay. The dams he built burst in a rush of pressure and he’s so <em>sick</em> of crying, of crumbling time and time again in front of Jack’s eyes. Tired of breaking to pieces the moment Jack looks at him or touches him or says his damned name like <em>that</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“Come here,” Jack murmurs, soft, patient, and Ianto does. Allows Jack to manoeuvre him, lead him back to the sofa and tug him down in a flurry of limbs.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not comfortable. Not at all. Jack’s knee is pressed awkwardly against his hip and his arm is pinned under Jack’s ribs in a way that already sends pins and needles shooting down the length of it. But he’s spent several nights of the last few weeks sleeping down on the hard floor of the basement — on cold, stained cement.</p>
<p class="p1">By comparison, this is the most content he’s felt in weeks.</p>
<p class="p1">Jack catches one of his hands and turns it over lazily. “I’ll ask Owen to look at these. You’re lucky it’s not worse. That much bleach would wear through just about anything. And something tells me you weren’t diluting it either.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It wouldn’t come out if it wasn’t strong enough.”</p>
<p class="p1">“And gloves never occurred to you?” Jack’s fingers trail across the back of Ianto’s hand. It twitches beneath his touch.</p>
<p class="p1">“I didn’t think they were necessary.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Just part of the punishment, right?”</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto stills. Jack doesn’t. He trails his fingers higher, feather-light up his arm, across his chest, until they settle at his tie; loosen it with quick, deft movements. Jack undoes Ianto’s top button next, pulls at the collar until it opens, until Ianto can suck in a breath and feel, for the first time, like he’s not choking behind a mask of civility.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, you can stop. The penance of Ianto Jones ends now.” He presses a kiss to Ianto’s cheek — right over the still fading mark, the thin slice taken from his cheek. It will scar, Ianto knows. Another mark. Another reminder. Jack’s lips take the sting from the thought. “Captain’s orders.”</p>
<p class="p1">Jack holds him tighter. His breath fans across Ianto’s head and catches at his hair, out of place and ruffled from Jack’s fingers earlier. From his own, throughout the day. It’s a wonder it hasn’t turned blonde from all the bleach on his hands.</p>
<p class="p1">He had been so sure, before. So sure that he could save Lisa. That it was noble — just. That it would be worth all the secrets and the lies and the betrayal. He can’t find that knowledge now. Can’t find much of anything over the dull ache in his chest.</p>
<p class="p1">“You were doing what you thought was right. I can…respect that, believe it or not — even if it didn’t work out as you planned,” Jack says finally, breaking the quiet and Ianto idly wonders if Jack had been reading his thoughts. It's nothing he wouldn't put past him.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” he manages. It falls flat.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not enough — will never be enough. It won’t undo the damage. It won’t bring back Tanizaki or the delivery girl or Lisa. It won’t stop Gwen from flinching every time she touches metal, from Owen pushing past him with more force than necessary. Or the betrayal glinting in Jack’s eyes; Ianto can still see it — at night, in the quiet and the dark — angry and hurt and so guarded he was sure he’d never break through Jack’s defences again.</p>
<p class="p1">But here he is. Sprawled out half on top of him, held warm and safe and firm.</p>
<p class="p1">“I know.” Jack’s lips find his temple and press a small, lingering kiss to his skin.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>”You don’t.”</em>
  
</p>
<p class="p1">But he thinks, fleetingly, that perhaps Jack <em>does.</em> Even with his gun aimed at Ianto’s head, he had been <em>open</em>; searching for anything that would make him understand. It hadn’t taken him long to find it. Ianto remembers the softening in his eye, lightning-quick and gone just as fast, but it was there. Sympathy. More than that, a sense of understanding. A familiarity at pushing boundaries that were never meant to be tested.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s there now, if Ianto really looks. Can see it in the slope of Jack’s brow, his hair haloed beneath the lights. That same softness, that same yielding of emotion.</p>
<p class="p1">Ianto curls into him, buries his face against Jack’s chest and breathes him in; leather and wool and the faint hint of scotch. There's something beneath his shirt, a small hard outline of a shape Ianto can't make out. The chain is tucked beneath Jack's collar, hidden. But the metal is cold against his nose, regardless, still not quite warmed to Jack's skin. He shivers. It’s a small, half-aborted movement. Jack still catches it.</p>
<p class="p1">His arms wrap tighter around him, one of his legs slipping between Ianto’s. And <em>Christ</em> he’s tired. More than tired. Exhausted. It’s been weeks of not sleeping, of dreaming in starts and storms. His own bed feels haunted and the basement had been more of a guard post than a place for rest.</p>
<p class="p1">Being here with Jack shouldn’t make him feel so <em>safe</em>. So cared for. Barely six weeks ago he’d pressed a gun to Ianto’s temple and threatened to pull the trigger. And now those same hands rub warmth against his skin, tangle in his hair, strong and sure.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s drifting before he realises it — eyes slipping closed before he opens them again, forces himself back awake. Every time he does Jack’s face is just as close, just as soft.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sleep,” Jack commands and Ianto follows his order. Falls, weightless, into the cushions of the sofa, held fast and firm by Jack’s arms. He thinks, in that wide, dark expanse, that he feels Jack’s lips against his, hears him murmur his name once.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>”I forgive you.”</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading. Please consider leaving kudos or a comment if you enjoyed &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>